


unreasonably high on the emotional dependency scale

by calibutts (abucketfullofnsfw)



Category: Steven Universe (Cartoon)
Genre: (gently blows dust off this account), F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Infantilism, Non-Sexual Age Play, actual cgl stuff starts at ch 2 but. please read ch 1, i can't believe i need this disclaimer but Here It Is, it has important character stuff and story setting up stuff in it, neither of whom are in any way attracted to children, two adults practice nonsexual age regression for therapy purposes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-27
Updated: 2017-02-27
Packaged: 2018-09-20 19:50:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9510347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abucketfullofnsfw/pseuds/calibutts
Summary: And that was the approximate train of events that lead to your post hysterical, sniffling self being gently bundled and strapped in to the back of Sadie's car.(Or; Lars and Sadie have a treatment plan for bad days. Today was pretty fucking terrible.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i am aware that the only fics on this account are cgl
> 
> this is because this is my cgl account because if i put these things on my main i would have 0 friends
> 
> (disclaimer: i have no attraction to children. i do not derive any sexual pleasure or satisfaction from anything described in this fic, or anything relating to the idea, or related ideas, of doing anything sexual to children. i just use this, platonically, nonsexually, to cope emotionally, mk. i know this is a tumblr heavy fandom and i really do /not/ want the torches and pitchforks at my door just because i have weird ways of coping with my Various Emotional Problems anyway thank u all for ur time)

So here's the thing. You're not really sure how you got here.  
  
"Here" has different meanings, depending how you want to take it. Physically here, you, now, sitting in Sadie's car, allowing yourself to be driven back to her house, silent, because you  _can't_ , because any attempt at communication right now is entirely out of the question, considering your current state, and it's a wonder you've managed to pull yourself back together at all.  
  
Which brings you to the next kind of here, emotionally here, because by god, how did this morning turn for you so quickly.

Sure, you're an emotional guy. Maybe your temper is shorter than you'd like. Maybe you have more breakdowns... than you'd like. Maybe you score pretty low on the emotional health scale and everything to do with  _that_ particular brain function is just a giant mess of depression and anxiety and really, really just needing some kind of support. Yeah. You can admit that, at least, and you are not someone very good at admitting your shortcomings, but you can say, hand on heart, that you are a Giant Emotional Mess.

You're not really sure that's something to be proud of, but regarding the whole admitting your faults sort of deal, well, at least you're getting there.

The past few days haven't... exactly been great for you. You did alright on your finals, you think, or hope, anyway- not too badly, considering how badly you'd done on everything literally the entire rest of your time in education (and it's not for lack of trying, honest to god, you  _do_ , you try so hard, it just doesn't click, somehow) and your parents spent a good ten minutes being proud of that before shoving you in the general direction of community college - and really, you only applied for them, honestly, just to give them something to be proud of, god, for once, you actually wanted to do some good. You have no idea what you want to do with your life - you're not very good at planning your future, considering (considering you don't really see yourself with one) and you pretty much just took the easiest option you could find - not out of laziness, or lack of trying, but... more out of lack of opportunity to fuck it up. It's some sort of mixed media art class, or. Something. The thing with art is that it's interpretive and you're sure you could find some sort of niche where it would be less about you fucking up and more about the viewer Just Not Getting It.

Or something. Either way, they're pressuring you about doing well on your classes and getting good grades and finally moving out and taking responsibility for yourself... more than you'd like. You have a job. You don't see how much more responsible you can be than that.

And Steven's dad's not around, apparently, off on some jaunt with some friends, which you only know because this leaves Steven's Terrifying Mothers in charge of him, which left you, the day before this, with another choice encounter with the tall scary ones while the ones you assume to be his equally freakish younger siblings just sort of ran around and made a bit of a mess. One of them took a donut without paying for it, got about halfway through eating it, and then immediately choked; the purple one just leant over, patted her gently, assured you something about her not knowing how to eat yet (????) and her tiny green charge immediately denoted the donuts as Dangerous Weapons and had to be gently lead out before she "launched her defense protocol", or something.

You really hate Steven's family.

(There are multiple reasons for this, but you're not going to admit to most of them.)

And you got in late, this morning, the morning after, because you were so tired from yesterday's shenanigans you overslept and missed your alarm, which left Sadie mad at you for the first ten minutes or so before she calmed herself down, but with you, if you upset somebody, it stays with you for pretty much the remainder of the day (or occasionally the rest of your life) and this obviously means she's going to hate you for the rest of eternity, now (you are a _colossal_ disappointment of a man) and a good three or four people had come back and given you hassle for fucking up their orders (you can own up to three of them, the fourth guy was a cheapskate) and then you ran out of jam and obviously such took the  _wonderful_ task of explaining to people, and they reacted very positively to that, and they're all just little things, alright, petty, small things that really didn't need as much drama as you're making out of them, but they build up, okay, and again, it's not like you're very good at dealing with your emotions like a responsible adult anyway.

And it's around one that Buck comes in, clique in tow - and to his credit, he does order donuts this time, evidently deciding that harassing underpaid retail workers and making you haul ass to the nearest 7/11 to get all of his Earthly Goods has less of an entertainment value than it used to (and you can honestly say good riddance to that joke, really) (Steven's positive influence, perhaps?) but the last time you spoke to the guy was when Steven was in your body, and that doesn't help, and you're left, leaning against the desk, trying to emulate that over saccharine optimism, Steven's never ending happiness and enthusiasm for everything, because you know they liked him, in your body, far, far more than they like you, and if they're expecting you to bend over backwards to achieve the same effect, then you can consider yourself a regular fucking contortionist.

Never let it be said that you're not needy. Unfortunately, this freaks Buck out, you're sure of it, because he  _seems_ affronted, his usual deadpan with a side of... incredulous? Unimpressed? You don't know, god, maybe you're just imagining it, but he takes the donuts and leaves with an Okay Uh Bye I Guess that leaves you incredibly dead inside.

And you don't cry then. You exhale, quietly, straighten back up, lean fully against the cash tills, check your watch, and you still have about three hours to go, so you don't cry yet, you just swallow it down and wait it out.

And you spend the rest of your day silent, pushing it down, doing your job, essentially, all the things Sadie tells you to do, and more besides, you have to keep busy, if you keep busy you don't have to think about it, not til you've calmed down enough for rational thought.

And maybe you should be thankful that the rest of the day goes without hassle, and maybe you should have calmed down, by then - and okay, in fairness, to your credit, you  _have_ , you're not openly sad, now, it's more calmed down into a quiet unrest in the back of your mind, the knowledge that today was a Bad Day, and you're looking forward to just going home and curling up on your bed and trying to block it out with music or whatever "funny" shit you can find on Facebook or whatever.

And then you're about to clock out and Sadie pats your back and tells you in no uncertain terms that she's very proud of you! You were actually kind of productive today!!

And then you cry.

Well, you don't cry, so much as explode - but then you don't explode, so much as cry, either - where usually it's pure temper, for the outburst, just a massive tantrum and  _then_ the emotional fallback, all the stress of  _everything_ , the past few days (or months? even? it's only been a month or so since your finals and you're really not over the stress of that, yet) (you  _think_ you did well but you would really rather not fail them, all things considered) (but it's not like you'd be surprised) just sort of spills over and you take it out on Sadie and it's not like you  _mean_ to, you really don't--

"Oh,  _really?_ "

(It's just that you're really good at breaking everything you touch.)

"For once, huh? Like some kind of-- some kind of  _miracle scenario_ , where Lars is  _productive for once?_ " You've kind of turned on her, at this point, not advancing on her, but stood there, fists clenched, barely seeing her through the cognitive fuzz, in your brain, barely focusing in favour of getting the words out.

"Gee, well fucking  _done_ Lars, managing to get through an  _entire day_ \--" You gesticulate, "Without being  _useless as usual_ _!_ Great! Really well done, there!" You kick the counter, for emphasis. "I have no idea why I even show up to this stupid fucking place anymore! If--"

The last part of that last sentence was going to be something vaguely along the lines of "if all you're going to do is tell me how useless i am", or something equally emo and whiney because that's your general style, but somewhere around after you kicked the counter you register that Sadie's stood still, really still, with her hands over her mouth, and her eyes are wide, and upset, and it occurs to you that you're yelling at her for probably very little fucking reason and she was probably just trying to be supportive. And probably not sarcastic. And you're an asshole. And you keep hurting her, somehow, and--

And maybe it's this thought that makes you cry for real.

It starts off with your hand over your mouth, too, and then you're shaking, and you lift your hand for a moment to try and apologise, but all that happens is a loud sob, and you clamp it back down again, but that does basically nothing and you sob, again, and then you lift your arms, duck your head, to bury your face in your elbows, your arms curled over your face, elbows together, hands on the back of your head, and you cry.

And maybe this worries her, because you're not really the crying around people sort of person - again, you're more the exploding and storming off kind - and if you're far gone enough to cry in front of her, there must be a problem, and her hand is on your arm, suddenly, just in front of your elbow, and you look up and try to form coherent words.

" 'm sorry--" It's good enough, though the face she makes when you say it makes you feel worse, like your apologising is a rarity and the fact you are means something  _must_ be wrong with you, but you try again anyway.

"Sadie, I'm-- N-no, listen, I'm really sorry, I'm not mad at you--" Breathing might be a good idea. "It's just-- everything, and I can't-- I can't do it, I can't do any of it, but I'm not mad at you, I'm sorry, I'm really--"

Your face is in her shoulder, suddenly, and there's a hand on your back and you let yourself cry it out.

"It's okay!" She says, then, and she's close enough to whisper it, and she does, gently pats between your shoulderblades. "It's okay, Lars. I'm here. It's okay." She pulls you in a little closer, and you're on your knees, by now, because with this height difference it's kind of the only way you can comfortably bury your face in her shoulder, and you do, as close in as you can, and she rubs your back in gentle little circles and even as you're crying you feel oddly calmer. Like some sort of giant weight's been lifted. Or something.

And when you calm down enough, when you stop convulsing and you're down to regular run of the mill shaking, and your sobs die out, she pulls back, gently, takes you by the shoulders, and looks at you. You look down, you can't maintain eye contact, because you  _know_ you look an utter wreck, okay. You're sure of it.

Sadie doesn't seem too fazed, thankfully. She more just looks worried.

"Do you want to-- do you want to come back to mine? And we can talk? My, uh. My mom's not home, so.... if you..."

The sad thing is that if you were any other guy in the world talking to any other girlfriend, those words would have entirely different implications to the ones they do, and you can't help but think, as insecure on the subject as you are (and there is a reason you're a virgin, honestly) that you would feel far, far more normal if she was inviting you over to get laid.

But she's not, as far as you know, and you nod. Your throat is dry, and it's quiet, but you respond, nonetheless.

"Sure."

~*~

And that was the approximate train of events that lead to your post hysterical, sniffling self being gently bundled and strapped in to the back of Sadie's car.

Which brings you back, ironically, to being  _here_ , in Sadie's car - though as soon as that thought comes to mind you realise that the car has stopped and you're in her driveway. You stare at your feet, at the seat in front of you, blankly, and you don't really register anything going on around you until Sadie opens the door and leans over you to undo your seatbelt.

You don't fight it. You accept the help and let her gently pull you out of the car, you let her wrap her arm around your torso as soon as you're standing, and you let her gently escort you into her house without any sort of complaint. Every so often she looks up at you, as if trying to read your face, as if expecting a fight, but now that the storm's washed itself out you just feel weird and numb, and you like to think that maybe this is what's worrying her, the complete lack of emotional processing in your face, but really, you think, you know it's just because she's surprised you're not arguing.

What kind of friend, you wonder, does that make you.

Sadie sits you down on her couch and puts her arm back around you - and this time, you lean in.

You silently shuffle closer and rest your head on her shoulder, and the arm around you squeezes, and she ruffles your hair with her other arm, and then she lets her arm fall, and then she speaks.

"I'm sorry about earlier." And this makes you look up, as much as you can, in your position, because those aren't words you expected to hear - or thought were necessary, anyway. Sadie continues talking, idly pats your side with the arm holding you, and continues.

"I didn't mean to-- I was trying to be encouraging. I wasn't... being sarcastic. You were just... working so hard, and I guess I thought maybe, uh. Things were better for you, now? And you'd found some kind of motivation--" She stops, gestures, and you cut her off before she can continue.

"I know." And then, "It was probably kind of obvious. I just took it personally because.... today was shitty, and I."

You?

"I took it out on you. And I shouldn't have." It's not quite an apology, but somehow, you can't make yourself say the words again, so you settle for that. "It's just... everyone's just kind of been... on me, lately. And I...." No. "It doesn't matter. I shouldn't have yelled at you." Like all the other times, you think - and then you pull yourself up, out of the contact.

"Maybe I should just go home."

Sadie shuffles around to face you, now, tentative, and takes your hand.

"Do you want to?"

And it's something you appreciate, honestly, that as your relationship has built up, and you've learnt to understand each other more, Sadie has somehow learnt the blissful art of trying to help you without majorly infringing on your personal space. And there are.... really not many words for just how much you appreciate that. (In turn, you're trying to be a little more open about things like your feelings, and a little less concerned about your image - and you were trying not to lash out at her, as much, but look how  _that_ turned out.)

(Maybe it's not surprising. It's just a little disheartening that you're still such a bad friend, now that you're actually putting the effort in.)

You hesitate.

"I don't--" And then, "I just feel like I should."

Sadie's thumb runs over the top of your hand, and you twitch. "You don't have to." It's quiet. "I'm not... busy, Lars. And I want to make sure you're okay." And she hesitates too, then, and then "If you actually do want to go home, that's fine! But you don't... have to. Just because-- or if you feel like you're bothering me.... you're not."

And she says it so genuinely you decide to believe it, for the moment, and you nod.

"Okay."

"Okay." says Sadie, and she moves back towards you, puts her arm around you, again, and her other hand takes your hand, and squeezes. "What do you need me to do?"

Her voice is quiet, and you try not to tense at the question, and you shrug. Sadie pats your back and tries again.

"What number are we on?"

The scale she's using is a concept already conceived, between you, the level of care and emotional support you require, at this particular moment (because this is where your relationship has gone, apparently) and even after obtaining familiarity status it doesn't fluster you any less, and you can feel yourself blushing, and you look away and give a half hearted shrug.

"I don't know?" Your voice comes out strained, weirdly high pitched. God, your face is burning. "Like, six, or seven? Or something?"

 Sadie pats your back a little more. "Is, uh. Is that a real six, or a really understated ten."

You don't bother dignifying the question with a response, because you know she's right.

Sadie takes this as her being right, apparently, and gives you another pat, sliding herself off the couch and giving your arm a tug. It's gentle, but almost threatening to pull you right off the couch with her, so you straighten yourself up and make preparations to get up. "Okay," as she does that, and then continues, after, "I'm going to take that as a yes, and, uh. I think we should get you in the bath." Her hand moves, takes yours, gives it a squeeze, and you hesitate, and squeeze back, and nod, again, and swallow hard, and stand up.

Sadie can't carry you. Or, at least... you don't  _think_ she can carry you. She's never really tried. You're a skinny bundle of nothing and she's Barbara Miller's daughter, so she probably  _could_ , if she wanted to, and that wouldn't surprise you at all - but she's never tried, and considering there's an eight inch height difference between you, you're going to assume she can't. But what she  _can_ do, and does, is take your hand and lead you through her house, to her bathroom, like you're some kind of small child, particularly lacking in common sense, who would definitely somehow get lost in the short walk between her living room and her bathroom, and while the gesture does make your face heat up all over again, you can't say you object to it. 

She leaves you in the doorway, while she leans over, turns on the bath taps, tests the water and lets the bathtub fill up, and you stand there like a lemon and absentmindedly bite your nails while she does, until she turns to you and gives you a strained smile that you can only assume is her attempting to reassure.

"Okay!" Definitely trying to reassure. Not really working. "Do you, uh. Wanna come a little closer? So I can get your clothes off?"

You snort. Sadie sighs, but she's smiling, and even as she shakes her head there's another little exhale, through her nose, that's more like she's stifling laughter.

"Don't read into that."

"Sorry." There's actually the beginning of a smile, there, tugging at your lips, for once, and you don't remember the last time you genuinely smiled at anything, and you make your way over and surrender yourself and try to distract yourself from the fact that you're being undressed with more shitty jokes. "Wish I could say that was the first time a hot girl said that to me."

"And you can." She shoots back, eases your shirt off, and you try your hardest to ignore it. "With a completely clear conscience."

"Wow." You scoff. "Rude."

Sadie discards your shirt and works on undoing your pants. "Not inaccurate."

And it's moments like these, when you can have this kind of banter, back and forth, that make you the happiest, and your happiest moments are always with her, and you're satisfied and content for the next two or three minutes, just thinking about that, about how damned  _lucky_ you are, to have something like this (and definitely not focusing on the fact you're kind of naked now) until it hits you, quite painfully, as she helps you into the bath, that every time it  _is_ like this you have to go and fuck it up with how much of a giant douche you are. (And that's what's caused every single problem you've had, thus far, you muse, and that's why you're sometimes not friends.)

And now you kind of feel bad all over again.

And-- fuck, Sadie's been talking at you, this entire time, and you didn't get  _any_ of it, and it's only when she starts washing your back that you remember that you're here and reality exists.

The hand on your back stops, for a moment, then, as you realise, and then Sadie speaks again and she sounds worried.

"Are you... okay?"

You sigh, and let your head drop.

"I-- Yeah. I just kind of...." You gesture. "Got thinking some stuff over, you know?" And then, "I didn't really get any of that, uh. Sorry."

"Oh, uh, it's okay! It wasn't important." She probably doesn't mean it passive aggressively, but it does make you feel kind of worse. "I was just thinking, uh, if you wanted to do something after this? I mean--" And she cuts herself off, there, and pauses, probably to reword herself, in her head. "If you... want my advice, you look like you could kind of use a nap. I was just gonna get you something to drink and put you to bed, but, I mean. If there was anything else--"

You cut her off again. "That, uh. That sounds good to me."

You're quieter than usual, and she gives your knee a pat and continues washing you.

And you stay quiet, for a little longer, and the silence is awkward, and heavy, and Sadie moves onto your arms wordlessly, and you're looking away, and down, not making eye contact, and then you speak.

"Am I a bad person?"

"What?" Her hand stops, for a minute, and you almost regret the question, before she continues. "No, of course not. Why are you asking? Are you-- Did, uh, did something--?"

"I don't know." You shrug, again. "I just. Feel like it. A lot. You're like, the only person who's put up with me this long. And I'm not exactly the poster boy for World's Greatest Friend, or whatever." 

"You have some problems." Is she agreeing with you? You're not sure. "But everyone has problems, Lars. Nobody's perfect. And you've got me to help you with them--"

"Yeah, no, nobody's perfect, good call, but nobody's as much of a giant douchebag as I am either." You curl up, some more, and your head finds your knees. "You know?" You gesture, uselessly, with one hand. "I just. I don't know why you're still trying."

Sadie's not making eye contact either, you notice.

"Because I love you." And that's enough to make you pay attention. "And I care about you." And she says it softly, like she's admitting to something. "And I know... you're probably having a hard time believing that. But I do. And I'm... sorry if I didn't show it enough before." She continues washing you, then, moves to your torso, around the top, around your collarbone, and you bite your lip and exhale, slowly. 

(You know damn well that anything bad she ever did to you was your fault, was you bringing it entirely on yourself. But you don't say that, because it's not really optimistic bath time conversation.)

Instead you remain silent, lean your head against the wall, and Sadie's hand's on your back now, the one that's not washing you, patting you gently-- which would be nice and symbolic and meaningful if she hadn't moved her other hand, the one holding the sponge, down to your side, and suddenly you're squealing, involuntarily, and you kick your legs a bit and splash some of the water up over the edge of the bath tub.

And Sadie looks at you and she's surprised, for a moment, and then she smiles again, like it's a pleasant surprise, and she says "Oh, uh, sorry. I kind of forgot you were ticklish." and her voice sounds a little like she's nervous about it.

You huff, and try to stop yourself blushing.

"Good." You say. "Then you can just-- forget all over again." Your voice is shaky, strained, slightly, with the effort to keep your composure, and Sadie full on grins, now - and leans back in, suddenly, attacks your side with the sponge, and you squeal again and kick some more, until you're dissolved in frantic, involuntary laughter, and Sadie's laughing too, now, and it's moments like these where you can (and do) temporarily forget how much you hate yourself, because it's just you and her, now, and you can afford to be yourself, without any sort of facade to it - and it's the happiest you are, or can be, or  _have_ been for a while.

(You might wonder later if that's why you love her quite so much.) (Though perhaps equating the two - Sadie, and your capacity for happiness - is selfish, or manipulative, perhaps. You're not sure.)

(At times like this, you try not to care.)

 


	2. Chapter 2

You don't stay in the bath too long. Eventually the novelty wears off, and Sadie lets the water drain and helps you to get out. 

You're left sat on the edge of her bathtub, shivering a little, as she wraps a towel around your shoulders, pats you dry in a way that you privately find somewhat ineffective, and then she leans in, when she's done, and she kisses your forehead, and you forget all your complaints immediately. It feels nice. It makes you feel kind of warm - like your chest is fluttering and somehow generating heat through the rest of your body.

God, and you bet you're blushing again. God damn it. Why do you have to be so transparent.

"I'll just, uh--"

You realise Sadie's talking, then. It kind of brings you back to reality. She gestures vaguely in the direction of the bathroom door, adds on a "Get you some clothes," and leaves, giving your shoulder a gentle pat before she does, taking your old clothes with her, too. You watch her go, sit there, for a moment, lost in your thoughts, and then you shake your head and stand up, adjusting your towel to wrap it around your waist.

Sadie's bathroom has a counter, with cupboards underneath it - sort of like her kitchen. It's a decently sized bathroom, alright, and even among all the shampoo holders and little trays you see no use for, and various memorabilia like that, there's enough space on top of the counter for you to climb up onto it, sit yourself down, and there you wait patiently for her to get back. You could just lie down on the floor, and you know that, and it would probably be easier for everyone involved, but there's something about her having you lay down up here and dressing you like that that makes you feel especially small and vulnerable. 

It's... kind of scary, actually. Sort of makes you feel guilty, like you're doing something wrong, but at the same time it's incredibly comforting - relaxing, even, on the rare occasion that you can relax, and you're never quite sure whether the benefits outweigh your internal doubts.

(Which, from a psychological viewpoint, is probably why you're trying to regain control over the situation by climbing up here yourself, but you're not thinking about that, because you never really think that deeply about anything.)

Oh, wait, Sadie's back.

 "I, uh. I got some of your pyjamas." You fidget, a little, where you're sat, and she sets the bundle down on the floor and moves over to you. "I don't really have any of your other clothes here--" and she moves her hand to your knee, then, and adds a "Uh, do you wanna--" and a gesture, with her hands, and you swallow, and nod, and mumble a "Uh, yeah, sure--" and you swing your legs around, sat lengthways along the counter, with your legs propped up rather than dangling off the short edge, and you lay down. Sadie needlessly assists, with that, uses the hand on your leg to help swivel you around, and then moves it to the back of your knee to lift your legs up, gently, and the soles of your feet find the counter, your knees bent up and open, giving her access to your legs - and you squeeze your eyes shut and cover your face with your hands.

" _Ugh_."

You really hate being this vulnerable.

"Is this necessary."

If it wasn't, or you didn't want to do it, you wouldn't - and you both know that. You're whining to defend your dignity, here. Sadie bends down a little, as she talks, to gather up the clothes she brought in for you, setting them on the counter next to you.

"I mean-- unless you want to walk around my house naked--"

 "No!" You cut her off, squirm a little, still hiding behind your hands. "I mean, I-- I can dress myself. Come on. I'm not some dumb kid."

It's almost for effect, here, the amount of fuss you're making, the fact that you're prepared to throw a tantrum before you're even dressed and off the table, when you both know that if you were legitimately uncomfortable, the conversation would be going a lot differently. And as it stands, as supportive as she would be, in that case, of course, in this case Sadie straightens up and looks at you, raises her eyebrows (not that you can see it) and moves a hand down to assist with lifting your hips.

"Are you... sure about that?"

Even as she speaks, and even as you grumble under your breath about it, you're helping her, lifting your hips off the counter yourself, and when you set them back down there's material underneath you and you panic, a little, for a moment.

To elaborate; the diaper that Sadie is currently fastening snugly around your hips is made of cloth, thick cloth,  soft flannely type stuff, with little poppers at the sides. It's cute enough, but has its' own element of practicality, here - there's no way in hell you're using it for its' intended purpose, here, thank you, and it makes a lot more sense than buying a whole load of disposable ones, with that in mind. You may be roleplaying the part, here, but you are still a grown man, thanks. It's more about comfort, and security, for you - the act in itself of being laid down and changed into it, for one, and also because again, it's pretty thick, and there's security to be found in that, for some reason. Fuck. You don't know. It's soft and it feels nice and it makes you feel small and slightly embarrassed. Whatever.

You whine again, as she does it, squirming in your place, some more, mumble something about really not needing it, determined to make this as difficult for her as possible (though really, who's point are you proving, even, at this stage?) and you can't see her very well from behind your hands, but you feel Sadie stop, after doing up the right side, and there's a little pause, and a "Alright, come on," and suddenly there's something being gently persuaded into your mouth.

Ah. You forgot about this. You huff around the pacifier, roll your eyes, and then remember she can't see it because your eyes are covered, but... this is nice, and you really can't bring yourself to care, you're too tired, so you relax, settle yourself down, and okay, yeah, you feel a little less stressed already. There's something innately calming, about it. You don't know what it is. Maybe she can just read you that well.

"That should keep you happy." She sounds amused, if slightly weary. You move a hand up, just slightly, just enough to flip her off - as far as you can tell, she ignores it, and goes back to diapering you, clipping together the poppers on your left side in relative piece, now that your mouth is occupied. She gives your front an incredibly patronising little pat, when she's done, somewhere between your navel and the beginning of your crotch, and starts on your pyjamas, next, taking your shirt, and unfolding it, and again, you're a little quieter now - at some point, your eyes had closed, and you'd let your arms fall to your chest, in a more relaxed position, but it's here Sadie sits you up, a little, and you open your eyes (and take your pacifier out) to see her holding the shirt out, for you.

"Come on, arms up."

You roll your eyes, but you oblige, and she manoeuvres the shirt onto you gently, and immediately pops your pacifier back in. You huff. averting your eyes again, but Sadie is stood back, by now, evidently admiring her handiwork.

And you're not going to lie, you do probably look hella cute.

When you look back up, to make eye contact, there's a small smile at the corners of her mouth again. 

"Are you sure you still want your pants?"

You immediately take your pacifier back out.

"Um... yeah." Like it's obvious... because it _is_ , and why would you not. Sadie shrugs, and moves back in.

"I don't know. I just thought you looked sweet like that."

And maybe you did, but there's also no way you're wandering her house in a tshirt and an obvious and visible diaper, thank you (you have no idea when her mom's coming back, for one) (not that she'd probably _mind,_ knowing her but this is your dignity, here) and you open your mouth to say all this, but you get about as far as "Okay, but--" before she stuffs your pacifier in your mouth again and you're cut off and silenced.

Thanks, Sadie. You're a good friend.

"Alright," she's got your pyjama pants in hand, by now, and with the other she takes your ankle, gently, with a "You're gonna have to lift your legs for this," and you oblige, silently, let her continue dressing you, and she bunches the legs of your pyjama pants together, and works them over your ankles, leaving them there, for the moment, and leaning in to pat your hip gently. You don't need to be told, you've done this enough times, and you raise your hips and let her tug your trousers up all the way. "Alright!" she says, "That's, uh, that." and then that's done and you're dressed and she moves around to kiss you on the forehead, and there's a moment, there, however brief, that you're... entirely content, and you've kind of forgotten to not be.

You reach your arm out, then, hesitantly, and she takes it, pulls you around, into a hug, and you swing your legs around to get into a better position for it, so you can hug back, and bury yourself for a little while, and you stay in comfort limbo for a moment before she pulls back and takes your hand again.

"Come on, buddy." It's gentle. "You, uh, must be getting tired. You wanna nap?" And you nod, and you let her help you off the counter, and walk you down to the basement, and you hold her hand and let yourself be lead - and there's something about it, when you're into it, that makes you feel like a different person entirely, somehow. Someone with less problems. You're not sure. Maybe that's why it helps.

-*-

There's something neutral on TV. You're not sure what, you haven't really been paying attention. Your usual movie sessions with her consisted more of the horror genre, zombies and serial killers in masks and a whole lot of blood and yelling, and none of those had quite felt appropriate for right now, and maybe you could take comfort in mindless violence when alone, but Sadie quietly denounces it on the basis of appropriateness, for your age, and you swear she does this shit on purpose.

Anyway, you don't know what she put on because you're not really focusing on it. You can hear it, in the background, as white noise, but you're thinking too hard for it to register. You're both lying on her bed, the covers over you, and your head is resting on her chest, and her arm is around you, supporting you. There's the mouthpiece of a toddler cup, in your mouth, and you're holding it yourself, by both handles. You've never honestly liked bottles. They feel too forced, corny, like you're part of some bad themed porno or maybe a tumblr photoset. Sadie's got a hand on it, anyway, just by the edge, and you're sure this could be a metaphor but that's depressing and you're not going to think too hard about it. 

Instead, you drain the last of your mango smoothie, and turn your head to bury it in her chest, again, and she puts the cup back down and pats the back of your head, and tells you that you're a good boy, and you almost believe her, for a moment.

And you snuggle in, some more, you get comfortable, and you think a little harder, about everything, and then, slowly, reach up, to wrap your arms around her waist.

"Do you?"

"Do I... what." You can practically  _hear_ Sadie blink, in confusion, and you realise that your addition probably didn't make any grammatical sense, in retrospect - you're working on words said a good half hour ago, pontificating on the day, so far, trying to sort everything out in your head. So you try again.

"Do you love me?"

Emphasis on the "do", doubt in your voice, and her hand goes back to your hair and she says "Of course I do," almost like she doesn't have to think about it - almost like she's not lying, to make you feel better, and you shut your eyes.

"Why."

Sadie's arms wrap around you, too, to hold you in return.

"Why not?" And you snort, derisively. 

"You know why."

"I...." Like she's considering it, for a moment, and then "No," and then her hand finds your hair again and she says "I think that's... a little more about.... why you don't love yourself." And you breathe out, shakily, against her chest, and she pats you, and continues. "And I don't know how to explain it to you. Because you can't see it like I do."

"See  _what_." You choke on the words, just a little, and she tilts your head up, her other hand on your shoulder, and you stare at her, try to even your breathing, and she stares back - and she's smiling, just a little. Sadly? Out of pity? You're not sure, but it's not entirely a happy smile, and she leans in and kisses you on the forehead again and you close your eyes and let her.

"You. And... what I do. And obviously you're not going to see  _why_ if all you're focusing on are your flaws."

You keep your eyes closed and your voice steady. "That's all I have."

You can't see her, but you can feel her move, hear the disturbance, and you feel her take the pacifier, clipped to your shirt, and ease it back into your mouth. 

"That's all you're  _seeing_." She pats your shoulder, with her other hand. "And I'm still going to be here, for you, Lars, until you can see the rest of it, too."

You open your eyes - and open your mouth slightly, too, to object, reach your hand up, to take your pacifier out, to argue back, but she intercepts your hand and takes it in hers, wraps it up, in a tight hold, and her other hand moves to your back, giving you an idle pat.

"Anyway, uh," Deflecting, as usual. "You should get some rest. You've had one hell of a day, right?"

And you can't argue with that, as much as you want to, and you are exhausted, and you don't  _feel_ up to arguing, anyway. You feel different, somehow, like you're not  _yourself_ , like everything outside of this particular moment is an abstract concept. Tomorrow you're going to wake up, and go to work, and have adult responsibilities, and problems, and things to be stressed about, but for now, it's just you, and Sadie, and you're tired and she's holding you and even through the frankly unsettling lack of context, it feels safe. Warm, if a little fuzzy around the edges, but it's not like you're in the right state to care.

You cuddle in, and you bury your face, and idly suck on the pacifier in your mouth (for lack of a better term) and you go to sleep.

And at least, while you're here, you can kid yourself that maybe it doesn't matter if you hate yourself, if she doesn't, if she can still be here to pick you up when you fall and tell you're succeeding at  _existing_ , at least, like the fact that you're not dead yet is some sort of monumental victory for you, in itself - and maybe you  _can_ see yourself in ten years, maybe you can see the point of planning for the future, of  _having_ one, if there's still at least one person who loves you unconditionally.

(Either way, you're sleeping soundly for the first time in days, and you're warm and comfortable, so even if none of that is true, at least you have that satisfaction.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok well i might go back and edit that because there was a REALLY LONG GAP in between writing some scenes (does it show lmaoaoaoao) BUT for now it's done so yknow leave your complaints after the tone or whatever
> 
> anyway tldr stop hating lars guys he tries


End file.
